


A Little Pain Between the Eyes

by screamingarrows



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Whump!Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5325602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamingarrows/pseuds/screamingarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pain is a sign of weakness and Illya is not weak. </p>
<p>5 times Illya was reluctant to get help handling a migraine and 1 time he wasn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this prompt](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=866176)

The moment Illya wakes, he knows it’s not going to be a good day. His eyes are crusty, his breathing is already short in his chest, and when he sits up, his body aches in protest. He stretches on the way to the kitchen, tilting his head and rolling his neck to try and loosen the stiffness there. He doesn’t bother with the lights, knowing that will only aggravate the almost-headache. 

He runs cool water over his wrists, and uses his elbows to prop him as he lets his head hang over the sink. There’s not much to be done on days like this, where the migraine looms threateningly on the edge of coming and going. He cups his hands and brings a splash of water to his face. If he had time, he’d be able to sleep it off before it got terrible; unfortunately, he doesn’t and can only hope to stave it off until tonight which, judging by the tightness behind his eyes, isn’t likely.

He waits in his rooms with the lights out for as long as possible before leaving to meet Napoleon at an outdoor café down the street. He’s right on time and Napoleon eyes him suspiciously. Usually he’s there well before Napoleon, scoping the area first before Napoleon comes through with the same system. 

“You alright there, Peril?” Napoleon asks. Illya blinks slowly behind his dark sunglasses and nods. “Awfully quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he says and tries to keep his face neutral in the harsh light. Napoleon hums, but doesn’t comment anymore on it.

He does keep a watchful eye on him though, and he no doubt sees when Illya flinches at the loud noises in their mission, squints his eyes and half-raises his hand to his head several times.

To Illya’s surprise, Napoleon keeps quiet about it until they’re making their way home. By this point, the pain is blinding and his stomach has been rolling for the past half hour. He knows he won’t make it on a motorcycle, and there aren’t any cars to commandeer; he’s not sure it’s safe enough to walk back alone.

Napoleon makes up his mind for him.

“Come on, Peril,” he says, looping his arm around Illya’s waist and guiding Illya’s hand around his shoulders. “Lets get you home.”

Napoleon’s hand is warm, radiating through his shirt and when Illya’s knees quiver and give out under him, Napoleon’s solid under him, taking his weight in stride.

They walk like this back to the hotel. Napoleon takes back streets with sparse lighting and few passing cars; Illya finds he feels safe with Napoleon watching his back and leading him blindly through the city.

By the time they make it to the hotel, he can barely keep his eyes open. The overhead lights don’t help, making him gasp and clench his jaw tight. Napoleon murmurs soothingly to him, but even that seems much too loud. His stomach twists and bile burns the back of his throat. He can’t seem to catch his breath.

“Just a little farther,” Napoleon promises and Illya’s shifted. His back is against a wall, but Napoleon’s hand is still a reassuring presence on his side.

With one hand, Napoleon feels down the sides of his jacket, then pats at the pockets on his trousers. 

“Where’s your key?” 

Illya’s certain that if he opens his mouth to answer he’ll lose the fight with his stomach and throw up in the hall. 

“Illya, your key.” Napoleon’s hands are on his face, shielding his already closed eyes from the light. That small act gives him the energy to reach higher, to a hidden pocket in his jacket near the collarbone. Napoleon gently brushes his fingers away and pulls the key out.

Before he knows it, Illya’s being manhandled into the dark, silent room and it’s enough to immediately ease away some of the pounding ache behind his eyes. He’s walked to his bed and when Napoleon lays him down he curls up, raising his hand to tangle his fingers in his hair.

He listens as Napoleon’s footsteps retreat and he presses on his head with both hands. He jumps when he feels a hand on him, jack-knifes into a sitting position with his hands splayed defensively in front of him.

“Sorry,” Napoleon rushes to apologize in a soft voice. Illya’s heart pounds in his chest, making the drumming in his head increase. Illya blinks and sees the blurry shadowed outline of Napoleon on the edge of his bed.

“What are you-?”

“Here.” Napoleon reaches for his hand and places a warm mug in it. Illya wraps his fingers around it and lets Napoleon help it to his lips. The steam feels good against his face; it opens his sinuses and he just takes a deep breath for a minute, allowing the feeling of his pain lessening to overwhelm him.

“It’s just tea,” Napoleon says, misunderstanding Illya’s pause. “It should help.”

Illya thinks he hums in acknowledgement. Napoleon waits patiently as he sips at the cup and when it’s done, the migraine has indeed retreated enough that he can close his eyes without wanting to scream.

Napoleon pats his chest when he relaxes down and takes the cup from his limp fingers.

“Get some rest,” he says, moving silently across the room. “I’ll keep watch.”

Illya sags at the words, relieved he can slip into the deep sleep he wants since Napoleon will be here.

He’s asleep before Napoleon gets to the couch.


	2. ii

It’s one of their rare days off when it hits him by surprise. He’s with Gaby, wandering around the American town they’ve been stationed in. They’ve been out since early morning, exploring the residential roads before the shops in town opened. He likes shopping, especially with Gaby. She makes him feel needed and it makes his hands tingly.

They’re eating lunch when the lights start flashing in the corner of his vision.

His laughter cuts off and his smile dims; he rests his hand on the table to keep it from shaking noticeably. Gaby doesn’t notice his abrupt distance, which he’s thankful for; needing Napoleon’s help last time had been humiliating enough.

They finish lunch quickly and when they go through the next few stores on the strip he tries to keep the playful banter going. He sighs in relief when they decide to head back. The constant throbbing is beginning to make it hard to even think, let alone hold a conversation or scope his surroundings.

Gaby’s arm is linked through his and he hopes she chalks up his slow pace to being leisurely. He’s about to lead them across the street when Gaby jerks to a stop. He looks down at her and sees her totally captivated by the theater ahead of them.

“Do you want to catch a film later?” She asks, looking up at him with wide eyes. “We can grab Napoleon and–”

“I think not tonight.” He interrupts, wincing at the excited volume of her voice.

“Okay,” she says after a pause. Her brows furrow into a frown at his hurried decline and he opens his mouth to apologize but changes his mind. He just needs to get back to the hotel before the aura lights become blinding and he’s as incapacitated as he was when Napoleon had to help him. He can apologize in the morning, but this is a prominent weakness that he hopes to keep contained.

Gaby doesn’t let go of his arm, but she’s tense for the rest of the walk. He clenches his jaw and fists his hands in his jacket pocket in attempt to fight off the guilt gnawing on his insides. He knows what the decent thing to do is, but that takes a backseat over the pain rapidly building behind his eyes.

“Are you alright, Illya?” She asks once they reach her door. Her eyes search his face; he’s pale, his nostrils are flared, and when he smiles it’s tight-lipped.

“Of course.” He leans down to kiss her forehead. He’s warm against her and she watches him leave down the hall with worried eyes. He trips over his own feet but catches himself and his pace doesn’t falter.

Frowning, she steps into her room and bites at her lip. He wasn’t drugged, was he? She was with him the whole day; it’s been hours since he’d eaten or drunk anything. Surely if it was poison he’d have showed symptoms earlier. She starts pacing around her rooms, keeping an eye on the clock wishing Napoleon was finished with his seminar so he could help her with this.

Chewing on her thumbnail, she decides there’s no other alternative and leaves to check up on him.

There’s no answer when she knocks and her chest tightens. Face pinching, she knocks again louder.

“Illya?” She calls, all but banging on the door. She tries the doorknob and as expected, it’s locked. “Illya?”

Her hand’s raised to knock again when the door swings open. Illya leans against the doorframe and levels her with a glare.

“What?” He asks gruffly. The room behind him is dark and he looks pallid, sick. Without thinking she reaches up and places a hand on his forehead. He’s clammy and warm to the touch.

“You’re sick,” she says and he shakes his head before wincing.

“No.”

“You are.” She pulls her hand back and crosses her arms over her chest.  
  
“I…” He pauses, weighing his options. He doesn’t want Gaby to think he is incapable of handling himself. “I have little headache, is all.”

“Have you taken any aspirin?” He squints his eyes at her and her form gets a little less fuzzy.

“No.”

“Okay,” she says, ignoring the finality of his tone. She turns on her heels and starts off towards her own room.

“Will not work,” Illya calls behind her and she ignores him with a call over her shoulder.

“I’ll be right back.” She disappears around the corner before he can protest further.

In her room, she grabs the little emergency kit she’s gotten into the habit of carrying, and on an impulse grabs the lavender oil she rubs into her hands before bed.

“Illya,” she calls out softly when she returns not even five minutes later. She knocks gently as she opens the door and casts a look around the room. He’s sitting on the couch with his arms crossed, looking every bit like a petulant child. He doesn’t react to her entrance and she rolls her eyes as she walks to him.

“Come on,” she says as the door shuts with a click behind her. “Bed.”

“I’m fine.”

She waits a beat, hoping he’ll stand on his own. When he doesn’t, she walks to him and grabs his arm, giving it a tug. He complies, sulking as they walk together in the dark to his bedroom. He sits on the bed while she stumbles to the bathroom, patting for the switch to turn the light on. He winces and closes his eyes, listening as she fills a glass with water. His vision darkens and he opens his eyes to see her walking back to him.

“Here,” she says, pushing the glass and two aspirin pills into his hand.

“This is unnecessary.”

“Just take them,” she orders, climbing into bed behind him.

After downing the pills, he sits stiffly on the edge of his bed. Her hands are soft on his shoulders suddenly, pulling him down. She leans over him to take the glass from his hand and sets it on the table beside the bed.

“Come on, don’t be stubborn.”  
  
“You do not need to do this,” he insists. She rearranges herself so that he’s laying more comfortably on her lap and unscrews the cap on the lavender oil. Carefully she dips her fingers into it, rubs them together, and grabs his head. She rubs his temples without comment and as the minutes pass, he relaxes into her

Only when his breathing has evened out does she stop. He doesn’t make a sound and she leans forward to press a kiss to his now cool forehead. 

“Goodnight, Illya.”

He hums in response but doesn’t stir as she slides out from under him and leaves, locking the door behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is completely written, and I have no chill so it'll probably be completely up by tonight. Enjoy :)


	3. iii

It's been a solid five months since his last migraine. One of the longest periods of respite he can remember having. He chalks it up to being able to sleep better, feeling safe knowing Gaby and Napoleon are watching his back. 

They've just finished a mission and are debriefing when the steady beating begins behind his eyes. Immediately his eyes narrow in response and he looks around furtively at his partners and Waverly before casually reaching up to press on his neck. The muscle there is tight and hard under his fingers.

Luckily he never has much to say during these, usually preferring Gaby or Napoleon to tell the tale and only interrupting when they were being particularly exaggerative. So he lets himself zone out as the pain intensifies fast. He rolls his head from side to side, but the motion only makes his stomach queasy and he stops abruptly. The lights seem to get brighter and he breathes heavily through his nose. He can feel sweat bead on his temple and he moves to rub it away. 

The movement catches Napoleon's eye and the American scrutinizes him before focusing back on Waverly. He lets Gaby finish with her statement before hurrying his along, stating the facts plainly without his usual flair for dramatics. Waverly eyes him suspiciously but releases them without comment. 

Illya finds himself both thankful and annoyed at Napoleon's action. He’ll confront him about it later, though. Now, he just wants to curl under his covers and hope for sleep. 

By the time he makes it to his quarters, Napoleon is there, leaning up against the wall next to his door inspecting his nails. He smiles up at Illya, standing straight and running his fingers over his suit jacket as if to brush away wrinkles. Illya ignores him with a growl and unlocks his door. He wants to slam it shut behind him but he's not sure he can handle the noise. Napoleon's already followed him anyhow. Slamming the door would do no good. 

"Are you making this a habit?" Napoleon asks, shrugging off his jacket and laying it across the back of an armchair neatly. 

"Making what?" Illya asks, walking to the kitchen to get some water. 

"This," Napoleon waves his hand in Illya's direction. "Suffering-in-silence thing." 

"I am fine." Illya says through clenched teeth. He hears Napoleon hum and his hands fist in aggravation. 

"What do you want?" He demands, walking back into the room to see Napoleon's also taken his shoes off. 

"Nothing heinous, I assure you." He’s smiling when he talks but Illya isn’t comforted. He doesn't move, choosing instead to continue to glare. 

"Just get over here, Peril. I'm going to help you feel better." Illya’s eyes narrow and Napoleon practically sees him anchor himself to the spot.

“There is nothing wrong.”

Even as he says it his eyes squint against the low-level lamp light and Napoleon tosses his head back in frustration to stare at the ceiling.

“If you let me do this, I’ll owe you one,” Napoleon says dryly, looking back at Illya. Illya watches him before sighing and walking to the couch.

“Atta boy,” Napoleon says softly and smirks at the glare Illya gives him. He sits stiffly, and Napoleon crouches on his knees and starts to undress him. Illya stiffens further and gives Napoleon a sharp look not unlike a wary feral dog, but Napoleon merely shushes him gently and continues to take the thick jacket off and then reaches up to remove the cap. “There, that’s all,” he murmurs. Napoleon stands, turns out the lamp light, plunging the room into semi-darkness. He stands in front of Illya and gently places his hands on his shoulders and guides him into lying down on his stomach.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to help you relax but you’re not making this easy.” Napoleon quips. Illya tilts his head towards Napoleon and shifts, trying to get comfortable.

Napoleon doesn’t make a sound when he kneels beside the couch and begins thoroughly kneading the tense shoulders. He works his way to the neck, then up, scratching softly at the scalp before moving to the temples, the furrowed forehead. Slowly, Illya’s breathing evens and Napoleon’s hands feel so good, he can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed when a few tears leak from his eyes and get rubbed into the bridge of his nose.

Napoleon continues massaging him in that same loop; shoulders to neck to head to face and back again. Despite himself, he begins to doze off, unbelievably thankful that the migraine isn’t getting worse.

Napoleon works without pause and when he thinks Illya’s asleep, loose and pliant under his fingers, he runs his fingers gently through Illya’s hair to cup his head tenderly, making Illya blush unnoticed before standing. He’s gathering his jacket in one hand and shoes in the other when he hears Illya stir on the couch.

“Thanks Cowboy.”

He pauses at the door and smiles.

“Don’t mention it, Peril.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really fond of this one! Tell me what you think :)


	4. iv

“Why must I do this?” Illya asks, not for the first time. Waverly has called all of them down to the gym at UNCLE headquarters and the four of them are standing at the edge of a mat laid out on the floor.

“Because,” Waverly says, sighing. “You, all three of you, need to learn how to fight with other agents.”  
  
“But,” Illya starts. He _knows_ how to fight with others; besides, it’s a waste of time. In the months he’s been here, Waverly has yet to assign him to anyone other than Gaby and Napoleon.

“And,” Waverly says loudly, cutting him off. “You need to be prepared if you run into anyone bigger than you.” He gives Illya a look and Illya shifts, tightening his lips in displeasure. He hears Gaby huff a laugh through her nose and when he glances over, Napoleon’s eyebrows are raised dramatically.

“I say if we run into anyone bigger than Peril here, we abandon ship.” Gaby’s lips twitch into a smile and she tries to school her features back into seriousness at the bland look Illya sends their way. Napoleon’s much more skilled at it than she is, but his eyes widen and he’s the picture of mock-innocence.

He looks away from them and back to Waverly with a sigh. “You believe I am unfit for any mission?” Because if that’s the case, Illya has a lot of work to do. He has rarely been found wanting by his superiors and despite knowing he’s under different rules, he still has to suppress the shudder of what happens when he doesn’t live up to expectations.

Waverly looks between the three of them incredulously before saying, “I believe that practice can never hurt.” It’s spoken in the easy, neutral tone he uses when he’s not quite mad but not pleased either. He gives them a smile and Illya nods at it in return.

“Fine,” he says before turning to leave for the locker rooms.

By the time he gets out, Waverly’s gone and there’s another agent on the mat and Gaby and Napoleon are sitting together across the room. Gaby gives him a wide smile when she sees him looking and even Napoleon looks excited. The agent on the mat nods at him with an easy smile, stretching his arms around his back before walking forward, hand extended.

Illya takes it and the man meets his eyes. “I’m Griffith.”

“Kuryakin,” he replies and they move to the opposite sides of the mat. Griffith is large, taller with broader shoulders, but Illya’s fought against a group of armed men, one unarmed man should not be a problem.

They block each others jabs easily during the beginning. It’s tiring, but not challenging and Illya is only partially trying. He doesn’t feel the urge to prove himself until he sees Gaby and Napoleon creep forward as one, watching with intense focus. With sudden inspiration, he strikes at Griffith, the energy ramping up as Griffith renews his own charge. Illya wants to put on a good show for his audience, but more importantly, he wants them to acknowledge how dangerous he can be.

They go back and forth, dancing across the mat; both landing blows as much as they block them. His blood races and the adrenaline of fighting courses through him. Griffith drops to avoid a hit and Illya sees movement at the doors. He glances over and that’s all the opening Griffith needs. He sees the agent launch at him and he doesn’t have enough time to brace himself as his body hits the floor.

His head smacks against the mat and his ears ring, lights flashing across his vision. The air is knocked out of his lungs and he gasps against the weight off Griffith moving off of him. Griffith’s shadow shields him from the light but the agent moves and without thinking Illya raises his hand to block the bright lights from his eyes.

He blinks, pushing down the urge to be sick. He looks around, sees Griffith’s face looking down at him with worry. He’s saying something but the ringing is too loud to hear. Gaby and Napoleon are on their feet, watching him with faces twisted in concern. From his angle on the floor, he can even see the window behind him where Waverly’s standing.

He clenches his jaw and swings his legs, knocking Griffith on the mat while he rolls to his feet. Griffith is still looking at him funnily but Illya huffs heavily.

“I’m fine. Continue.” Griffith gives him another moment of hesitation before striking out his arm. Illya blocks and squints, trying to see around the white spots obscuring his vision.

He manages to get in a few hits, but takes more. But he doesn’t give up his attempted attack until he hears Waverly’s voice, too loud in the quiet of the gym.

“Nicely done, gentlemen.” He says and Illya winces, turning to look at his handler. “Mr. Solo, you’re up. Mr. Kuryakin, my office please.”

Cold dread curls in his belly and the pounding in his head beats in time with the footsteps Waverly takes across the gym. He stays unmoved until he’s certain his legs will lead him in a straight line to the lockers, ignoring Gaby stepping forward and Napoleon’s concerned face.

He dresses slowly, making sure his clothes are orderly, before leaving. Napoleon and Griffith are still standing around the mat and he avoids looking over there while he walks to the door.

The walk to Waverly’s office is long and the sharp office lights are glaring, rebounding against the tile and white walls. Waverly’s door is open and when he steps into the opening, the man looks up and gestures him in.

“Have a seat,” he says distractedly. Illya obeys, sitting stiffly on the couch along the wall opposite the desk and squinting against the outside lighting filtering in from the window behind Waverly.

“Just a moment,” Waverly says, rifling around in his desk. He smiles to himself and then walks over to Illya with a small flashlight in his hand. He pulls up a chair at his desk and sits with his knees almost touching Illya’s.  
  
“Sir?” He asks haltingly, leaning back slightly at their sudden proximity.

“I’m making sure you don’t have a concussion,” Waverly replies, clicking the light on and shining it into Illya’s face. He squeezes his eyes shut immediately and jerks his head away with a sharp intake of breath. Waverly grips his jaw gently and guides it back into the light. “Just a minute,” he reassures. Illya opens his eyes and tries not to blink as his eyes water. Waverly hums then clicks the light off, standing and walking across the room. He opens a side panel across his office; it’s a simple chart with letters and numbers visible in various sizes.

“Can you read this?” Illya squints then nods, reciting the chart through clenched teeth. Waverly nods in approval and then closes the panel, moves to the window and closes the blinds. Immediately, Illya’s body relaxes slightly.

“Do you get headaches often?” Waverly asks, moving to his desk and straightening some papers into a stack. Illya’s body chills and his heart beats a little faster.

“No,” he answers without hesitation. Waverly looks up at the tone and Illya keeps his face blank.

“Want to rethink that answer?” Waverly asks. He’s smiling and has his arms crossed but his posture is as unthreatening as possible. It doesn’t soothe Illya, he knows better than most not to underestimate anyone.

“Did you wish to talk to me?” Illya asks instead, clenching his teeth together. Waverly stares at him before shaking his head and waving his hand dismissively.

“No, no I think I’ve gotten all I need.” The words make Illya’s hands tremble so he fists them and begins to stand.

“Uh, no wait. You. Stay,” Waverly says, jumping forward with his hands out in a halting manner. Illya pauses and sits uneasily on the couch again.

“Sorry,” Waverly gives him a sheepish smile. “But I can’t let you wander around injured.”

“I am not injured.” Even as he says it he knows it sounds like a lie. His tongue feels heavy and clunky and the words trip out. Waverly doesn’t falter, reaching over to turn off his desk light.

“You’ve got quite the headache.” Illya opens his mouth to protest but Waverly gives him a no-nonsense look. “I want you to try and sleep it off.”

Illya blinks, unsure of what Waverly is doing.

“That is unnecessary.”

“If I have to I’ll make it an order,” Waverly says, and Illya exhales heavily through his nose. He watches as Waverly walks to the door. He turns off the overhead light and Illya’s face relaxes at the sudden reprieve.

“I’ll be back in a few hours to check in.” Waverly says, voice soft before pulling the door shut, locking it audibly.

Illya waits a long moment before relaxing against the couch. With nothing better to do, he leans his head against the back of the couch, lowering his cap onto his face to increase the darkness. Crossing his arms tightly over his chest, he closes his eyes. He knows he won't fall asleep, not with the intense pounding in his head and being in an unfamiliar, potentially unsafe, area; but he doesn't want to risk upsetting Waverly further. 

So he stays, and rests, and tries not to think. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: rewrote the whole thing to make it fit better with the rest of the fic! Hopefully this time it hits the spot! I wrote this between (and during tbh) class so hopefully there isn't anything tragically miswritten!


	5. v

Usually, Illya doesn’t have triggers that set off the migraine, but this time he lays blame on the mountains of paperwork he and Gaby are stuck with while Napoleon is conveniently laid up in the hospital.

Immediately Illya feels guilty for thinking that, positive Napoleon hates his stay in a hospital more than he’d hate having to do paperwork. Especially because he’s at the end of his stint with pneumonia and is instructed to stay until fully recovered, but it’s obvious he’s getting restless and impatient.

Illya rubs at his forehead, wishing there was some way to relieve the breathtaking pressure building in his head. He squints as the American letters squiggle into nonsense before his eyes and the paper becomes almost blinding under the fluorescent office lights.

He stares at the form until Gaby notices his stillness; at her notice, he spurs into motion, reaching out and grabbing a notepad to try to translate the English words into Russian; he’s known English for decades, but he’s hoping the Mother language will lessen the strain on his mind and keep the migraine manageable until he finishes.  

He’s already proven to Waverly that something as simple as a headache can take his focus away in the field, he cannot be also proven worthless in an office.

“What’s wrong?” Gaby asks, watching him scribble Russian sloppily onto the pad.

“Nothing,” he replies immediately. He knows that won’t sate her; it never satisfies Napoleon either and for the briefest of moments, he wishes his companions had the indifferent demeanor of his KGB partners. 

“So, what, this is quicker?” Gaby retaliates tapping her own pen against the edge of his notepad.

He doesn’t want to fight with her, rarely ever does, but particularly right now he just doesn’t have the energy.

“It is easier.” He admits and she narrows her eyes at him, looks towards his finished pile and then back at the notebook.

“Fine,” she says, letting the issue settle. He breathes a sigh of relief.

He’s working hard at ignoring the pounding in his head, breathing deeply to keep calm and not destroy everyone who makes unnecessary noise in the room, when Gaby rests a hand on his. He hadn’t realized he’d dropped his pen and settled fisted hands resting on the desk. He looks up at her, squinting around the bright aura haloing her face.

“Illya?” She asks, voice soft and uncertain and he realizes he’s breathing way too fast. “What’s wrong?”

He can’t breathe to get the words out. She raises her hand to his head and it’s so cold, he closes his eyes at the feeling.

Gaby hums in sudden realization before standing. Illya winces at the sound of her chair scraping the floor. She grabs a hold of his hand and gives a slight tug. He follows her obediently as she makes her way across the room to the front desk. He can’t focus on what she’s saying, but he’s aware enough to know they’re leaving before their work is done and guilt and nausea clench his stomach. He swallows hard, keeping the bile and any further embarrassment down.

She squeezes his hand as they walk to their quarters. He’s trembling and he can’t stop. Her fingers are like ice around his hand and he wishes she’d touch his face again, or his neck, anything to cool the burning feeling in his brain. He can see her lips moving, but everything else seems too loud and he can’t hear her. He leans forward, to get closer, but the movement is the final straw and he falls to his knees, hand out on the wall to balance himself as he retches on the tile.

Gaby’s hand is on his shoulder, rubbing comforting circles on his back and tears spring unbidden to his eyes as his stomach heaves again.

“It’s okay. I’ll take care of it. It’s okay.” She says, soft and soothing.

When he can breathe without his entire torso contracting, he gasps and stands shakily. Gaby is there, hands on both sides of his body. It doesn’t offer real support but the act is significant. She guides him slowly down the hall until they’re at his door. He’s not sure where she got the key from, but she’s unlocking it and leading him inside. Instead of taking him to his bed or couch, she leads him directly to the bathroom. She sets him on the toilet lid and leans over to turn the bath on.

The sound of water rushing into the tub is loud and disorients him for a moment before he realizes what she’s doing and begins to shrug out of his jacket, toe off his shoes and place his cap on the sink beside him. He waits for the tub to be filled and when Gaby turns the water off, he expects her to leave.

She doesn’t and slowly reaches out towards the bottom of his shirt and raises it over his head. When he doesn’t protest, she unbuttons his pants and helps him undress completely before easing him into the warm water.

Goosebumps rise on his skin and he can’t even find the energy to be embarrassed. Gaby disappears for a minute and he can distantly hear her rummaging around in his kitchen before she returns with a tall candle stick and a towel of ice.

She flips the light off and with only the weak flame of the candle lighting the room, his hands unclench from their grip on the tub’s side.

“Here you go,” she murmurs, putting the iced towel on the crown of his head. With her free hand she runs her fingers over his forehead, applying gentle pressure to his temples. He can feel his hair, damp with sweat, being brushed and pushed away from his face and he lets his eyes drift closed.

He stays in the tub until the water becomes lukewarm and the towel is empty. He feels so much better with the ache down to just a faint pounding and when he stands, he’s only a little wobbly.

Gaby hands him a towel and he dries off before tying it around his waist. Without speaking, they head into the bedroom and she waits on his bed; he starts to put on new clothes, when she shakes her head at him and raises an eyebrow threateningly.

“We’ve got the day off,” she says. “And you’re going to sleep.”

He almost wants to smile at the commanding tone but also wants to growl in frustration because he’s _fine_. He debates if it would be worth it to fight her on this, and decides no, it definitely wouldn’t be. So he obliges her and gets out his pajamas. She looks away while he dresses and doesn’t look at him until he climbs into bed on the other side.

“You know there’s no harm in letting us know when you are hurting, right?” Her eyes are troubled. She reaches out and rests a hand on his forehead; he raises his own hand and wraps his fingers around her wrist.

“I can take care of myself.” He hopes they believe this. He’s had this happen his whole life, just because they’ve seen it a few times does not mean he is incapable.

“I know,” she rushes to reassure and he relaxes into the mattress, unaware he’d even tensed. “But you have a team who wishes to help you, Illya.” He gives her arm a stroke with his thumb before he lets her go and turns his head away.

“It is unnecessary.” He says because he has nothing else to say. He wants to believe them, but he can’t. This is a temporary assignment and relying on them will do more harm than good in the long run.

She breathes out softly and presses her small hand on his chest.

“The point doesn’t change,” she says finally, standing to walk to the door. “Sleep well, Illya." The door closes softly behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another part that I'm really proud of! Hope you like it :)


	6. vi

It’s a quiet, peaceful day. They’re off, with nothing to do and no plans, in the same city they’ve explored too many times to find any excitement in doing it again now. There’s no rush to be anywhere, and Illya’s enjoying his stay in his rooms. He’s reading when the lights shimmer and everything gets fractionally louder. He marks the page he’s at and stands with a sigh. At least he has nothing pressing to do. He goes to the sink and pours himself a glass of water, drinks it standing over the sink, then refills it and moves to his bedroom.

He’s just about to crawl into bed, when he hears a knocking at his door. He thinks about ignoring it, but decides against it. He cracks the door open and then widens it when he sees Gaby on the other side.

It’s still early enough that the lights aren’t blinding so he can keep from squinting as she smiles up at him.

“Napoleon wants us over for drinks,” she says, pushing sunglasses high on her head.

Illya looks at her and smiles softly, shaking his head. “Maybe another night.”

“Oh come on!” She exclaims, grabbing his arm and pulling halfheartedly. “How often do we get to do anything for fun?”

Illya can think of many instances where they’re on a mission and Napoleon and Gaby wander off to whatever catches their eye, but doesn’t mention it.

“A rain-check,” he says, soft smile still on his lips. She huffs and jerks her head so the sunglasses fall onto the tip of her nose. She peers at him over them.

“Fine, we’ll be in his room if you want to join us.”

He watches her dance her way down the hall and closes the door once she turns.

He sighs, clenching and unclenching his fist. His fingers are already chilled and he rubs at his neck. He’s tense, but he can’t work the knots out on his own.

Collapsing into bed, he pushes his face into a pillow and pulls his blankets to his chest.

With every breath it seems like his headache gets worse. His chest tightens and he wants to scream, but knows that won’t help anything.

He wants his partners.

He rolls over, ignoring the selfish desire for them. They’re busy, having _fun_ ; they don’t want to babysit him. He tries to rub at his own head, but the act of raising his arm to do it makes his body feel heavy and weary.

He hates this; with every fiber of his being he hates this.

He’s not sure what’s wrong with him. He has suffered through these since he was young, he should be fine. But all he can think about is how wonderful Napoleon’s hands felt rubbing his head and the way Gaby can tell just what he needs by looking at him.

He swallows, breathing shakily out of his mouth, then clenches his teeth. He is not weak. He can handle this on his own. He is fine.

But, these pains always soothe so much faster when Napoleon or Gaby helped. And really, shouldn’t his priority be getting to perfect health in whatever way is advantageous?

He gets to his feet slowly, pausing and breathing heavily through his nose when his stomach tenses threateningly. Once the nausea subsides, he stumbles to the door and out into the hall.

He squints as he walks, trailing one hand on the wall to keep his balance. Napoleon’s room has never felt so far away.

He can hear the music they’re playing clearly through the other side of the door and he hesitates before knocking. The world feels slow as his knuckles hit the door, the sound echoing in his ears.

There’s a long pause before the door swings open. Napoleon is grinning over his shoulder, a glass of scotch in his hand and the top buttons of his shirt undone. When he takes in the sight of Illya he frowns and hurries to set his glass down. Illya takes a step and stumbles; Napoleon grabs him, wrapping two strong hands on his sides to hold him up.

“Whoa there, Peril. You don’t look so good.”

Gaby shuts off the music and the sudden silence is blessed relief. Napoleon walks him to the couch and sets him down, running a cool hand up his neck and to his forehead. “You feel warm.” He states with a frown and Illya swallows thickly, fighting back the urge to vomit.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he gets out. Both Gaby and Napoleon are standing in front of him, looking at him with identical looks of concern.

“Nonsense,” Napoleon rushes to say, waving off the apology. He starts moving around the room, clicking off light after light until only one lamp in the furthest corner is lit. “Better?” He asks and Illya nods as shame twists in his chest.

“Good,” he says and Illya glances up in time to see him nod at Gaby before disappearing into the kitchen.

Gaby sits beside him and situates them so that they’re back to chest. It’s uncomfortable and he tenses to avoid putting all his weight on her; but when she begins rubbing at his temples, he relaxes into her. He can feel her breathing, even and steady under him, and he tries to match it.

He thinks he focuses on that for longer than he realized, because the next thing he notices is Napoleon crouching beside him with a plate in his hand.

“Eat up; this should help.”

He sits and takes the plate and fork from Napoleon. It’s an omelet, simply made and warm enough to eat without waiting for it to cool. He finishes it quickly and looks up.

“Thank you.” Napoleon grins and cards a hand through his hair, and takes the plate without a word.

Gaby unfolds from the couch and grabs his hands. “Let’s go lie down,” she suggests and Illya follows her into Napoleon’s bedroom. It’s the first time he’s been in there, and he feels guilty at the fact that he’s here out of obligation. Gaby pulls back the covers and crawls in, looking up at Illya expectantly. He follows suit and breathes deeply through his nose.

When Napoleon walks in, he gives them a smile before kneeling on the edge of the bed, and gently guides Illya into rolling onto his belly.

He does, expecting the nausea to come but surprisingly, the omelet's calmed his queasy stomach.

His eyes widen in surprise when Napoleon straddles him, sitting on his lower back with his knees pressed firmly against his sides. Gaby starts running her fingers through his hair, pulling gently at the short strands and running her nails along his scalp. Napoleon presses his knuckles into his shoulders, kneading them and working his way up to his neck.

His breathing slows, in and out with the time of Gaby’s circular motions on his head. His body warms with Napoleon on him, pressing the warm hands all over his back.

Like never before, the migraine dulls quickly, and under the skilled fingers of his partners, he manages to sleep.

 

 

He wakes too hot and sandwiched between Gaby and Napoleon. They’re all still dressed in their day clothes and Illya wonders how upset Napoleon will be to see the wrinkled state of his shirt.

He tries to sit up, to carefully untangle himself from the two, but they wake almost immediately.

“Good morning,” Napoleon says, voice gruff with sleep. He’s rubbing his eyes with one hand and covering a yawn with the other.

“How’re you feeling?” Gaby asks, curling further into his side. He can feel himself flush with embarrassment but he keeps his face calm.

“Better. Thank you.”

Napoleon gives him a sidelong look. “We’re glad you came to us,” he says slowly and Illya nods once, sharply. He tries to sit up again, wanting to hide away until this blows over, but Gaby just tosses her leg over him in a mockery of a pin. He can toss her off easily but finds he doesn’t really want to leave.

“Stay,” Napoleon says softly. “Rest. We have no where we need to be.” He turns to his side and props his head on his arm.

Illya swallows, and slowly relaxes into them. Napoleon smiles and Gaby’s grip loosens. They drift back into sleep and Illya smiles softly up at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is the end! Hopefully yall enjoyed it! Thanks for the all reviews/kudos and the help!!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! This is my first work in the fandom so hopefully everyone's in character well enough! Unbeta'd so if you see anything glaring please point it out. 
> 
>  
> 
> [find me on tumblr ](http://www.screamingarrows.tumblr.com)


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